


You Are Not Your Father

by melfics (orphan_account)



Series: Mickey's Feelings [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Mickey Milkovich Deserved Better, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/melfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich is not his father, and he deserves better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Not Your Father

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just get in moods and I relate to Mickey a lot so I write it out.

He can't draw. He can't write. He can't. He can't. He can't.

It's Sunday now, and something is sounding in his ear. Like a whisper. A reminder that he is still Terry's son. He still is and he always will be, and no amount of time spent with Ian or loud, sad songs he listens to can or will change that.

Midnight has his head spinning faster than ever. He doesn't want to stalk into the kitchen, he doesn't want to grab a beer and he doesn't want to down it, because that's a Terry move. He doesn't want to, but he does. His legs carry him there, because his legs, his will, they belong to his father. And he isn't good for anything else.

These are all things he tells himself, but the way he convinces himself would make even you question reality. At least initially. It was like that with Ian at first, when he couldn't see him for anything but the dirty thug, the south side thug. Someone to fuck. The gay thug.

He splits his skin slamming the glass against the kitchen wall. The blood trickles down his palms, down his wrists, and all he can do is continue to hit the wall. The empty bottle is in shards at his feet, and he's yelling, but it's okay because his sister and her boyfriend are busy making noises of their own and his father is passed out in the yard. So he hits, and he splits his skin further, and oh my god it feels so good. He feels real. He feels the sting of the broken skin and the burn of the blood, and maybe it hurts but it makes him feel real. Not like a project that his father forgot to finish. His father, the drunken, starving artist.

But, he thinks, stopping himself. Maybe he isn't all bad. He was there for Mickey when he needed him. And Mickey is such a bad son. He disrespects his father. And he's gay. God, he's gay. He should be able to like girls. He should be able to change that. But he can't, because he's a bad son and he hits the wall. He's just like his father.

_Who are you fighting for?_

He can hear Ian's voice in his head, and he's not sure if it's encouraging or judgmental. But it's there. And it's enough to make him stop.

He pictures Ian there, not touching him, because he doesn’t need that right now. He pictures Ian with a concerned look on his face, one that he’s only ever seen on him. His eyes are kind with worry and a half-smile quivers at his lips- his blurry, hallucinated lips. But then he looks strong.

_You have to decide who you’re fighting for. Yourself? Or your father?_

Mickey shakes his head. It’s not that easy. Not when you don’t know who is who.

 _You_ , Ian says, _Are_ not _your father. You are not your father._

Mickey lets out a strangled cry and wills Ian’s image to dissipate before he slides down the wall, smearing his blood. He is too choked up to cry, so he sits there palming at his eyes and swallowing the attempted escapes from sobs in his throat. How can’t he be his father, when he is the spitting image of him, drunk and bloody? Hurt and hurting other people?

He’s too tired to hear any more answers from his inebriated subconscious, so he stops asking himself questions. He just sits on them and sits on them until morning, until he wakes up with bruised and split knuckles and a pounding headache.

 

“Get up,” says his father. “Faggot.”

The last thing he wants to do is get up, but he does because part of his will still belongs to his father. He gets up, slowly, and he kicks at the shards of glass. Then, just as soon as Terry begins to talk, he walks. He walks into the living room and out of the front door. He walks several streets down and a few houses over. He walks to Ian’s house. Because he’s gay, and he wants to see his boyfriend. And just because he can’t be honest with his father yet doesn’t mean he can’t be honest with himself. He remembers who he’s fighting for, even if he’ll doubt it again the next time he gets drunk. Because some parts still belong to his father. But he, himself, does not.

He remembers who he’s fighting for as he lets Ian clean his knuckles and wrap them in gauze. He winces at the pain, but the small strokes of Ian’s fingers lull him.

“You can’t keep doing this, Mick.”

A sigh. “I know.”

Ian looks up at him with wet eyes. “You are not your father.”

“I know.”

“Okay, well when you don’t know that,” he presses, rubbing Mickey’s wrist. “When you don’t know that, call me. I’ll come and I’ll get you and I’ll let you punch me instead.”

“Ian,” Mickey breathes through his nose.

“It’ll hurt your knuckles less,” he half-jokes.

“How about you hold me instead.”

“When you don’t know,” Ian repeats, settling Mickey’s bandaged hands in his lap. He’s sitting on the counter, and Ian is leaning against his knees. “Call me, and I’ll come hold you.”

“And tell me.”

“And tell you,” Ian nods. “You are not your father.”

**Author's Note:**

> xoxo comment below


End file.
